Start Again
by Gaia Faye
Summary: Harry demonstrates his devotion to his daughter when danger sets foot on their doorstep. Post SH1 official ending.


**Disclaimer: **I'm getting really tired of these. I do not own SH. I do not own the characters. I do not make moolah off of this. And so on.

**Author's Note:** I usually don't get stories done so closely to each other. But here's another one, set after the official ending to Silent Hill. It elaborates upon a section of Douglas' notebook that you can read in SH3, where it says that Harry killed an "occult freak" from Silent Hill in self-defense 12 years before SH3 takes place.

* * *

**START AGAIN**

Harry could hear the rain pattering on the window and the roof. He liked it. The sound was soothing and helped him write. He was particularly grateful since the chapter he was currently breezing through had sat untouched for about a week. The rain had chipped away at the writer's block, and at his fear that he would never make his deadline.

The particular novel was the last in his first trilogy, perhaps his only trilogy. It took a lot out of him, extending the same characters through three whole novels. He thought that for his next endeavor he might try a collection of short stories instead. He could mix in other genres with the horror, give himself a chance to segue into other demographics. The themes he wrote about now made him stuck in memories he'd rather get away from, regardless of the success they had brought to him.

If he had the chance to write it over again, he wouldn't have made his fiction so close to the truth. Hell, as far as he was concerned, he'd been writing nonfiction for the whole first book. The second two just elaborated on it with ideas from his imagination, but even then everything he had seen led him along. At any rate, he wanted to forget about it, just move on, repress it all, especially so Cheryl would never have any idea.

Cheryl… She wasn't Cheryl, he would tell himself sometimes. For one blatant fact, Cheryl had been seven years old when they went to Silent Hill. When he left again, the child he held protectively in his arms was a mere newborn. Her face was even different from Cheryl's, particularly her lighter brown eyes. But there was something about her. Something that told Harry that although this was not the Cheryl he had brought into Silent Hill, it was still her in some form, it was still his daughter, his little girl.

That was what had stopped him from doing anything rash.

But there had been moments. Moments of weakness and fear and anger when he would wonder just what this supposed baby was, from what womb she'd been born from, what could possibly be fathomed as her parentage. Was it foolhardy to care for what could possibly grow to be some kind of demon? And as he contemplated what to do, his hand would wind loosely around her fragile throat.

And she, none the wiser, would wave her hands at him, or gurgle or smile, or even just stare at him with those big eyes, and the shame would come crashing down. His wife would have been appalled at him. This baby was not a demon, any more than Alessa was.

And even though she was not Cheryl, he would love her and protect her just as with his first adopted daughter. Both had been thrust out of the realm within Silent Hill and away from the cult's dark plans, and he had been there each time. Both were defenseless and needed him, and he would be there, no matter the cost.

This time, he was alone at the start, but so be it.

Far away, there was a rumble of thunder. Harry paused in his typing and sighed. Cheryl would be down any minute. The five-year-old didn't like storms, and the earlier weather report let Harry know that the thunder would be traveling their way. Sure enough, the door to his study creaked open and the little girl, clutching her favorite doll, peeked into the room.

"Are you busy, Daddy?"

Harry spun his chair away from the computer and flashed a reassuring smile. "Aw, you know I'm never too busy for you." He extended his arms to her. "C'mere."

She slipped into the room, leaving the door open, and hurried over to him. He hoisted her up into his lap and spun the chair around once for fun. She giggled, then glanced over at the screen. "Is it done?"

He shook his head. "Not quite. This is the second-to-last chapter, though."

She frowned up at him. "Why don't you ever write about anything happy?"

He tried to smile. "I just have some… inspiration with horror stories that doesn't go away," he replied. "This one looks like it'll a happy ending, though."

"Hmm." Cheryl seemed to think this over, pressing her face into her doll's hair. The was a flash of lightening and a growl of thunder. She winced at the window.

Harry tightened his arms around her. "It's alright. You're inside. It can't hurt you." He turned the chair around to the wall, his back facing the window. He looked over at his bookshelf, at a section of books on the top row. "Will a story make you feel better? How about one about a princess?"

"Maybe," she said, reaching up to hug him around the neck.

He smiled to himself, still peering at the books. "Let's see…"

Cheryl's arms suddenly tightened around his neck. "Daddy?" she whispered over his shoulder. "There's someone in the backyard."

"What?" Harry immediately stood up and turned to the window. He put her down on the floor and looked out into the rain. The motion-detecting light was on, but he didn't see anyone-- Wait. Movement by the bushes. He turned back to his daughter, picked her up, and set her on his chair. "Wait here."

Harry left his study. He closed the door behind him, then went down the hall to the kitchen in the back of the house. He opened the back door and cautiously looked around before stepping out into the rain. The motion light went on again, illuminating trenches in the yard that he hadn't noticed when he'd stared out the window. He approached the area of ripped up grass curiously, wondering if a neighbor's dog had gotten out. But as he reached it, it was quite obvious that no dog had done this.

Harry stared down at the round symbol dug out of the wet earth. Two circular lines formed a ring of damp grass, and within that ring were three muddy circles. The other messy marks filling with water weren't distinguishable. It wasn't the Mark of Samael. Or Seal of Metatron. Or whatever. But he knew it was related. Just looking at it reminded him instantly of a barren town of rusted grating, where the blackness threatened to snuff out his flashlight with every clattering beat of his stained shoes against the bloody metal mesh, and all the while the radio screamed.

Another noise. He turned and spotted a figure going around to the front of the house.

Harry ran back into the house, slipping once on the wet grass. He locked the kitchen door behind him, and as he rushed to the head of the house, he called out, "Cheryl? Cheryl!" He slid again on his wet shoes and nearly smashed his head on the side table in the front hall. He caught his balance, stumbled to the front door, and locked it too.

Small footsteps warily came into the small foyer. Harry turned around and Cheryl, with her doll, was standing by the doorway to the study.

"Daddy, what's wrong?" she asked.

"Get upstairs in your room," he replied, peeking through the long door-side window. To his surprise, the intruder was standing right on the front porch, staring back at him. He was soaked, and the front light glittered off his entire being. His shoes were covered in mud and bits of grass; he left sloppy footprints on the steps and the concrete deck. Marks on the sidewalk, unprotected by the porch overhang, were slowly dissolving in the rain.

"Daddy--"

"NOW." He turned his head to glare at her and watched her quickly go up the stairs. Once he heard her bedroom door close, he turned back to the window. The man was still there. He was tall, lanky, and he wore a dark brown trench coat over black pants and an untucked white button-down shirt. His head was shaved. He was young, but Harry's seniority didn't make him feel any more secure.

"Can I help you?" he said loudly through the glass. Maybe he was just lost, or some strange loner passing through.

Right. And maybe the symbol in his yard was just a coincidence.

The young man stared at him for a moment, then said, "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

Well, it was certainly out in the open now. "I've called the police," Harry said, hoping he would go away. Then he could get Cheryl and spend the night some place safe.

The young man actually smiled at him, pulling a thick leather glove over his hand. "You're lying."

Before Harry could comprehend what the glove meant, it crashed through the glass and grabbed him by the collar. He was pulled forward, head smashed into the window frame. As he stumbled, the young man reached in and unlocked the door. He stepped inside, and immediately Harry blocked out the pain in his head and swung at him. The young man ducked out of the way and reached into his jacket. He pulled out a handgun and aimed it at the older man. Harry froze.

"Where is she?" the intruder demanded.

"I don't know who you're talking about," Harry replied automatically. He felt blood trickling down the side of his face.

"You know exactly who," the young man snapped. "You are Harry Mason. You are the nonbeliever who stole the Holy Mother away from us. You have obstructed the path to Paradise, and you mean to do it again."

The young man's words just worsened the alarms screaming off in Harry's head. The last thing he'd ever wanted was to deal with the Silent Hill cult again. He'd honestly thought that he and Cheryl would be safe, that no one else could possibly know about the baby he had been given. No one else had been there. Harry tightened his fists, gritted his teeth. How could they possibly have known?

"She's not here," Harry said, eyeing the side table.

"You lie in God's face," the young man spat.

"Daddy?"

Harry looked up the stairs. Cheryl stood at their head, staring in horror at the gun in the strange man's hand. "GET IN YOUR ROOM!" he shouted.

"No, stop!" The young man reached out to her, but she followed her father's instruction and retreated. He ran to the stairs, and when Harry tried to stop him, he thrust the barrel of the gun back in his face. "Stay," he warned, backing up the steps.

"Get away from her!" Harry shouted, quickly moving to the side table and yanking open the drawer. He reached in and pulled out a revolver. He aimed at the young man going up the stairs. "Stop!" he ordered. "Or I'll shoot!"

But the young man had a similar idea. He shot twice. Harry ducked to the ground, and the bullets wound up in the wall. Harry looked back up and saw the young man rushing up the steps. Harry quickly raised his gun and pulled the trigger. The man lurched, dropped his gun, and fell back down the stairs. His body landed crumpled, face down, and Harry could see the blood well up from the wound in his back. But that wasn't his concern as he clambered over the dead man and up to the second floor.

"Cheryl? Are you okay?" Harry asked as he burst into her room.

She looked over at him, eyes wide as she spoke on the cordless phone. "My daddy is here now! … Daddy, the lady wants to know if the man went away?"

Harry snatched up the phone. "What do you want with my daughter!" he snapped.

The voice on the other line was stern, but understanding. "This is a nine-one-one dispatcher, sir. Where is the intruder? Have the officers arrived yet?"

Harry collapsed to the floor and pulled Cheryl into his lap, hugging her tightly. "He's dead," he mumbled into the phone. "And no."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

A few months later, Harry was in the bathroom of their new home with his daughter. Sheared slips of black hair lay on the floor around the base of the toilet and down the sheet tied around Cheryl's neck to cover her small body. She fidgeted on the toilet lid as her father read the directions on the bleaching kit another time. He set the box down and pulled on the latex gloves.

"Alright," he said, picking up the brush from the bowl of peroxide and bleaching powder he had recently mixed. "You'll have to hold still for a little while."

"'Kay," she said. "Is this going to hurt?"

"It might burn a little," Harry said honestly. "But I know you can be a big girl for me. We're going to have to do this again in a week or so."

"… Okay," she said.

Harry started to apply the bleach on a section of hair at the nape of her neck. "In the future, we'll get this done at a salon, okay?"

"Can I get a different color?"

"Oh, I think blonde will look really pretty on you," Harry said, knowing that he only picked blonde because it was nearly the opposite of pitch black. And people looking for a raven-haired girl would likely pass over a blonde. He rather hoped it would act something like sheep's blood over a doorway.

"Doesn't black look pretty?" Cheryl asked, sounding concerned.

Harry moved onto the next section her hair. "Of course it does!" he assured her. "You'll look beautiful no matter what."

She giggled. "Thank you, Daddy."

"You know what else?" he said, trying to sound as interesting and lighthearted as possible. "We're going to give you a new name."

"A new name?" the little girl said. She tried to tilt her head back to look at her father, but he pushed her back down and told her to stay still. "Why?"

"I think Cheryl is just an…. an old fashioned kind of name," Harry lied. "Besides, don't you think it would be fun to change your name for when you start school? Then your real name could… could just be a secret between you and me." What the hell was he talking about? He was rambling. If anything, he wanted Cheryl to forget her real name, forget any connection to what had happened five years ago. She'd be safer that way.

The young girl apparently accepted his blatant bullshitting. "What name?" she asked.

"What name would you like?"

She thought about it, but the slight tugging in her hair distracted her. "I 'unno."

"Hmm." Harry moved to another piece of hair. He'd done plenty of research on names for his books. He liked a bit of extra kick if characters' names actually meant something about them or what would happen to them. What name would he want for his daughter?

"Something pretty," she said, kicking her legs a bit.

"Alright." Pretty… beauty… Like flowers. Like… heather. Heather meant beauty, and if he recalled correctly, it was also interpreted as good luck. And God knew that he and his little girl needed some luck.

She sighed. "I'm tired."

"Just a little longer," Harry said. "Do you like the name Heather?"

She pushed out her lower lip. "Hmm…" Then she smiled. "I like it. It's pretty." She was quiet for a bit. "Daddy?"

"Yes, Heather?"

She giggled, but fell back into nervousness. "Do we have to worry about any more scary men?"

"No, we don't. And you know why?"

"Why?"

Harry paused in his bleaching and leaned down so she could see his grin. "Because your daddy is the strongest man in the world."

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I have no idea how to bleach hair. I had to look it up online. So I apologize if anyone's had it done before, notices discrepancies, and thinks I'm an idiot. lol 


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